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Copyright "N? i_ 

COPHUGHT DEPOSIT. 



GALLERY OF ART 




GALLERY OF ART 






By 
JOSHUA READE 



POEMS 



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New York 

THE READE PUBLISHING CORPORATION 

1918 







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CONTENTS 



Recollections 7 

The Daisy and the Violet 8 

The Harvest Moon 10 

Going Through the Sieve 11 

Change 12 

Love's Last Flight 13 

Memories 14 

Seek Your Equilibrium IS 

Shall We? 16 

The Death of Destiny 17 

The Old School House 18 

The One Dollar Bill 18 

The Blue-Eyed Girl 21 

The Reaper of the Forest 22 

A Lesson From Nature 23 

Identity 26 

The Orphans 27 

The White Immortelle 28 

Ingratitude 29 

John Henry's Scales 30 

The Turtle's Rebuke 32 

The Passing of the Hobo 33 

A Buried Story 34 

An Ode to Cabin John's 

Bridge 35 

(A Story in Stone). 

Let Us Pay It 37 

Conflict of the Shadows 38 

Liberty 39 

The Homestead 40 

Are We Drifting? 41 

The Past and the Present 42 

Jean Adams '. 43 

Have You Heard an Echo?.... 44 

The Living Force 45 

Ambition 48 

Oh ! If You Have a Sweetheart 49 

The Rivals 50 

Why? 51 

The Living Missile 52 

The Conqueror.. 53 




The Pedler 54 

The Moonbeam and the Ocean 55 

Just Hold a Consultation 56 

My Foster Father 57 

Kathleen 58 

Evolution 60 

What Is It? 61 

That Old Fifth Reader 62 

The Ocean 64 

An Ever-Shining Constellation 65 

The Grand Review 67 

The Cornfield's Prayer 70 

Defects 71 

When the War Is Over 72 

Woman Suffrage 73 

Silent Night 74 

Our National Loom 75 

Mental Pictures 76 

A Lazy Courtship 77 

Habit 78 

Falling Shadows 79 

A Lonely Bird 80 

The Awakening 81 

Emancipation 82 

The Invisible Door 83 

The Optimist 84 

Resurrection 85 

The Stream 86 

We Are Only Shadows 87 

Conflict of the Days 87 

Sincerity i 88 

What Is Life But Hope 89 

The Riddle of Life 90 

Human Effort 90 

Frolic of the Shadows 91 

The Question 92 

The School of Nature 93 

Lady Jane 94 

The Crossing 95 

The Tomb of Time 96 

Star of Hope 97 





GALLERY OF ART 

RECOLLECTIONS 

HROUGHOUT the shifting scenes 
of life, 
From hilltop to the valley; 
Come echoes near of happy days, 
To sweethearts swift they rally. 

The groves contribute fallen leaves, 

The seaside, shells of ocean; 
The wings of love drop feathery plumes 

As thought gives force to motion. 

Where walks took place of carriage rides, 

And lonely places smile; 
To happy hearts in passing by, 

Suggest they rest awhile. 

A lazy tree across a brook, 

Where sunshine yields to shadow; 

Suggests a place where lovers sat, 
While plowmen turned the fallow. 

Where brambles pitched their tangled tent, 

And sunlight never entered; 
There lovers breathed the breath of peace, 

There waves of love were centered. 

Where willows drooped their weeping limbs, 
And age the house had battered; 

'Twas there they passed some happy hours, 
As rain the shingles pattered. 

The noisy cities saw them pass, 
They watched the stream of people; 

They saw where wealth held up its head^ 
As church holds up its steeple. 




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They walked where sands resisted weight, 
And foam its surface covered; 

They heard the roar of ocean waves 
Where thoughts of lovers hovered. 

As years have come and rolled away, 
As seasons brought their treasure, 

These lovers gathered gems of thought, 
When labor turned to pleasure. 

How often did these trusted friends 
When youth had passed forever, 

Unlock the door to treasure's vault, 
And count the gems together. 



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THE DAISY AND THE VIOLET 

PROUD old Daisy in a field 

Once said to a modest little Violet in a 
shady ravine: 
"Lift up your head, why do you live in that 

dark, gloomy spot?" 
"Because," said the Violet, "I am little and 
humble and satisfied with my lot." 
"You look rather lonely, where are your friends, little 

Violet Blue?" 
"Your enemies are my friends and my own are all 

true." 
"Look, little Violet, this big field over, it is white with 

my kinsfolk." 
"But," said the Violet, "you are trespassing in other 

people's clover." 
"I and my kinsfolk are privileged to grow where we 

please. 
"We toil not, we spin not, we live at our ease. 
"We have entered the race of National Flowers, 
"And my kinsfolk are claiming the award will be ours." 




GALLERY OF ART 



One sunshiny day when there was no wind or shower 

The Daisy grew faint in the hot, broiling sun, 
While the Violet was cool in its deep, shaded bower; 

Its roots were still moist, its ailments were none. 
The Violet peeped out from the shady ravine and said: 

"Oh, Miss Daisy, why so sad? Are you ill or has dis- 
appointment affected your nod?" 

"It is the latter, little Violet, the Government has 
chosen the Golden Rod." 

"Cheer up," said the Violet, honors will fade; 

"Desert that hot field, come live in the shade." 

"No, thank you, Miss Violet, I prefer to live where I 
can be seen. 

"I could never be happy, much less content to live in 
a ravine." 




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The little Violet felt hurt and made up her mind 

To speak no more to Miss Daisy, so proud and unkind. 

One early morn when Miss Violet Blue 

Was sleepy and lazy and covered with dew, 

An echo came hurrying down the ravine: 



"Is it birds that I hear; is it bees; is it boys, or is it a 
machine?" 

" 'Tis a reaper," said the Robin, as she flew over. 

"The owner is mowing his field of clover." 

"Alas!" said the Violet, "I fear for a flower that re- 
fused to come live in my shady bower." 



A click and a clatter all day in the field of clover, 
And the days of Miss Daisy and her kinsfolk were over. 
A sharp little sickle, treacherous and sly, 
Cut down Miss Daisy to wither and die. 



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"Ah!" said the Violet, " 'tis the same old story the 

whole world over; 
"Do not trifle or trespass in other people's clover." 





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The song birds all have started South 

In search of forests new; 
The Autumn days at once begin 

When the Harvest Moon is due. 

The seaside places close their doors 

When Labor Day is ended; 
The lunar rays of all our moons 

In the Harvest Moon are blended. 

The rice bird, once the Bobolink 
That sang throughout the Summer, 

In changing plumage, habits, name, 
Now falls before the gunner. 

The boarding schools for pretty girls 
Now call them back to cover; 

They rally to the Autumn call 
Like Southland draws the plover. 

The grasshopper and the katydid 
Help make the uplands sound; 

Their medley ceased as they disappeared, 
When the Harvest Moon came around. 

The raccoon feasts on roasting ears 
And prowls around at night; 

The darkies say coon hunt begins 
When the Harvest Moon gives light. 

When Labor Day is over 

And the dog days' end has come; 

And the Harvest time is coming on 
And the leaves are fading some, 



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We feel an impulse stirring us, 

Ambition spurs us some; 
Our nature seems of better grade 

When the Harvest Moon has come. 





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GALLERY OF ART 



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GOING THROUGH THE 



HERE are many things of interest 
In this world in which we live; 
But they slip away and disappear 
Like water in a sieve. 



There are some whose lives they'd lengthen 
While there's some don't care to live; 

And are ready for depression 
To drop them through the sieve. 

There are glorious days of sunshine 
And our highest praise we give; 

But the darkest days are always those 
That push us through the sieve. 

There's a cable in some people's lives 
The thing for which they live; 

And it's this that keeps a love affair 
From falling through the sieve. 

It's the strength of loyal friendship 
In the lives some people live; 

That lifts their soul above the pit 
That lies beneath the sieve. 

When strands grow weak in love affairs 

From strain begin to give; 
The time is past for rescue 

And it's going through the sieve. 



GALLERY OF ART 





CHANGE 

9 SAT upon a silent rock where fifty years 
before 
I sat upon the same old stone and mused on 

future store. 
But Change, the silent, subtle thing, like 
strokes that move the clock 
Had left its mark on all around except the stream and 
rock. 

The fighting perch had left the stream, the sycamore tree 
had fallen; 

The Rooks that once had nested there had flown and 
ceased their calling. 

The grand old trees that hugged the stream and beauti- 
fied its border 

Had fallen by the hand of Change, like others at its 
order. 

The echo that I used to hear, just fifty years ago, 
That hurried up and down the stream when youth was 

all aglow 
Had left the scene as did the man who gave the echo 

wings; 
To rise above the land of Change and all material things. 

The Eglantine that used to grow and shed its sweet 

perfume, 
Had vanished like the old farm bell that used to ring 

at noon. 
While sitting on this gray old rock that touched the 

river's edge 
I doffed my shoes, with trousers rolled, I splashed at 

fifty edge. 

But rounding up experience, that half a century told, 
And dipping in the treacherous stream with waters dark 

and cold, 
Anticipation sought by me, since fifty years have flown, 
Was dreamland for a barefoot boy and not for him 

when grown. 



3 





HE chilly blasts of Winter melted 

Beneath the breath of Love's burning ray; 
Flowers bloomed on barren shores and dark- 
ness 
Turned to light of day. 
Steps once heavy as of burdened tread 
With spirits drooping pale; 
Lightly came change lifting blithely 
A heart now hale. 



Hope arose as a glowing orb 

Above a horizon gray from doubt; 
And golden gleams forced entrance 

As shadows fled without. 
Entrenched within a heart as in other hearts 

In days of yore; 
Love built an altar, lit its fires, 

Warmed and hovered o'er. 



Ambition drew its plans e'er the bridal chamber 

Budded soon to bloom; 
Dreams sketched the grounds of home, 

The glow of Hope had reached its noon; 
When Nature drew her bow, the shafts of music 

Straight to a heart did go. 
Remotest chambers, responsive, gave way and vibrant 

Threw back echoes sweet and low. 



All Nature tuned to Love's impulsive ear, 

Joy arose as sorrow fled; 
Eternal peace remained throughout the year 

Unclouded skies were overhead. 
An influence riding in mid-air circled o'er, 

As a bird upon the wing; 
Emotion bubbling to overflow, 

Subdued all pain, destroyed its sting. 






An evening walk by winding stream 

And crumbling mill; 
'Twas here they courted, loved, and heard 

The whippoorwill. 
Moonbeams shed a softer light 

In Love's Lane; 
And fireflies staged their gorgeous light 

Over hill and plain. 

One evening, change came o'er a scene 

Where expectation dwelt; 
And Hope no longer blazed the way 

To joy so often felt. 
A broken vow drew shadows 

As day was turned to darkest night; 
A poisoned dart pierced woman's heart 

'Twas Love's last flight. 



,35 




MEMORIES 

LONG the pebbly brooks of time 
And hollows full of echoes; 
Are orchards filled with memories 
green 
And others dwarfed by yellows, 
But what good would our pleasure be 

If void of recollection; 
Or what would light our drops of dew 
Without the sun's reflection? 

Would life without its lights and shades 

Be one like everlasting; 
Or do we feel the ups and downs are clouds 

Our sky o'ercasting? 
Would not the ocean lose its charm 

If robbed of all its billows; 
Would not our forests lose their charm 

If all were weeping willows? 




GALLERY 




Diversity, then, will lift our hope 

And fire our inspiration; 
We must have change to check the trend 

Of selfish inclination. 
Let us gather, then, the lights and shades 

Of shifting scenes behind us; 
And spread them on the canvas 

That will rise and fall before us. 




SEEK YOUR EQUILIBRIUM 

HEN you meet with disappointment and your 
spirits droop and fail, 
Or the mercury of your temper rises up the 

danger scale; 
Just seek your equilibrium, between good 
nature and a frown, 
Drink a cocktail mixed with reason and your mercury 

will come down. 
When you've had your own way always, and by chance 

you're curbed a bit, 
Don't fly into a temper but make the best of it. 
Because the people change their minds don't let your- 
self grow sour, 
But seek your equilibrium when you drop the reins of 

power. 
If you've lengthened out your overcheck and been a 

little gay, 
Don't criticize your sweetheart if she should go that 

way, 
If you play Res, let her play Proc, while either is en 

route, 
But seek your equilibrium when you wish to beat dispute. 
The tendency in most of men in the ups and downs of 

life, 
Is to be a little selfish but teach patience to the wife. 
They ofttimes fly to jealousy before they have a cause, 
If they sought their equilibrium first, they'd always stop 
and pause. 






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GALLERY OF ART 



A woman's world is rather small and routine day by day, 
Don't judge her by what you've done, be careful what 

you say. 
Before you wound the living force that binds yourself 

to her, 
Just get your equilibrium and soften down your fur. 




«S 



SHALL WE? 

VERY pleasure has its sting 

Hidden beneath a crushing fate; 
Every Winter has its Spring 

Sometimes early, sometimes late. 



Every flower seeks the sunlight 
Bursting from its clasping folds; 

Soon to fade into the midnight 
Soon to yield the breath it holds. 

Every sorrow leaves its furrow 
Carved upon the face of time; 

Weighty thoughts that sink and burrow 
Reappear in force sublime. 

Hours we spend in pensive thought 

Void at first of recompense; 
Wend their way through sadness fraught 

Swell the tide of affluence. 




Shall we, then, when clouds of Winter 
Warn us of approaching age; 

Let our nature crack or splinter 
Foster streams to drown our rage? 

Better far to seek the sunshine 
Shimmering on some other place; 

Fire our faith while seeking pastime 
Brush the clouds from off our face. 




GALLERY OF ART 



THE DEATH OF DESTINY 

P from the valley of Destiny's reign 
Hope rose in triumph, 
Its opponent was slain. 
Thought, clothed in armor of new style and 
power, 
Has driven the old 
While the new holds the hour. 





How oft has the man who, burdened by care, 
Sank down by the loads 
That adversities bear. 
The clouds that hang low and the lights that are dim 
Are as millstones and drawbacks 
That handicap him. 



But Hope lives immortal while destiny dies, 
New thought illumines 
The old, cloudy skies. 
Suggestion, invading the old doubting minds, 
Will reinforce weakness, 

Force light through the blinds. 



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The past often rises as dreams reappear, 
But Hope when encouraged 
Builds Destiny's bier. 
The triumph of effort although it be late, 
Will often win battles 
And disappoint fate. 



Long live the muse who by patience tried out, 
Gave life a new vision 
To drive away doubt, 
Then Time, in its whirling and infinite course 
Will recompense effort 
From whatever source. 



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18 



GALLERY OF ART 



THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE 

OW many of us realize 

The dreams of boys at school 

Were not all passing fancies 
Nor proved an April Fool. 



The farmer's boy with stogy boots 
His trousers void of crease; 
His coat loose cut without a fit 
And often spots of grease, 

Forgot his raiment long enough 

To lift his range of thought; 
To future heights where knowledge dwells, 

The price of effort wrought. 

In after years when looking back 
To school days green in youth; 

His dreams had not been all in vain 
But ripened into fruit. 



THE ONE DOLLAR BILL 



O thou hast returned home at last 

Thou dirty, ragged one dollar bill; 
Laden with a myriad germs and microbes of 
many species, 
Yet, thou art worth one dollar still. 
Not all fathers whose offsprings cross the thres- 
hold 
And venture forth on errand bound, 
Will welcome the wanderer whether prodigal or minis- 
terial 
Though wrecked and ruined, received as sound. 
Oh, that thou couldst talk and thy wondrous story tell 

Of thy wanderings and sojournings, 
The lesson thou couldst teach, the story thou couldst 
relate 
Would equal a sage or philosopher's learning. 




GALLERY OF ART 



I cannot call thee a dreamer, nor dare I call thee a prodi- 
gal 
For Congress was thy creator; 
And thou wentest forth by full permission on thy mission 
bent 
And thou alone art thy own relator. 
But thou entered the great arena of life conscious in the 
faith 
That thy redemption was sure. 
No matter what was't thine appearance on returning, thy 
demeanor whilst away 
Or whether thy motives were evil or pure. 
No matter whether early or late, whether clothed in the 
same artistic coloring 
As in thy youth 
Or whether jaded, discouraged, emaciated or faded, thy 
mission performed. 
Thy long stay and appearance on thy return evi- 
dences the truth. 
How many hearts hast thou gladdened, how many too 
hast thou left lonely and sad; 
Legion is perhaps the number of bills thou hast paid 
And obligations discharged as well as a like number dis- 
appointed 
Who thought thee had. 
The degree of thy power hast been matchless 

When thy achievements have all been recorded; 
Though thou hast been no respector of persons for the 
pious, the lewd and licentious 
Thou hast befriended as well as rewarded; 
The high and mighty, the lowly and meek, the rich and 
poor, the good and evil 
Before thee have bowed; 
These to thee have all paid tribute in thanks, some in 
supplication and prayer 
In silence or aloud. 
Thou hath played many a role, thou hast been a traitor 
and a tyrant 
A Christian and an Infidel 






A Protestant and a Catholic, a coward and a patriot 

A prisoner and a sentinel. 
Thou, too, hast been priest and subject, parent and child, 

God and Devil. 
Thou hast also dealt both justly and unjustly, deception 
hast thou practiced 
Yet charitably aoted on the level. 
Virtue hast thou prostituted, yet thou hast also hounded 
and prosecuted him 
That hath done as did thee; 
Thou hast overtaken the fleeing criminal and him brought 
to justice 
And yet didst thou enable the guilty to flee. 
Thou saint and sinner, thou God and Devil, thou gay 
deceiver 
Thou innocent and heavenly dove, 
Thou darling of my heart, thou vile and slimy serpent, 
wrecker of homes 
An angel of mercy from above. 
Thou corrupter of courts, thou breeder of graft 

Yet thou art a shining example of righteousness and 
reform ; 
With all thy wickedness, cruelty, corruption, disaster, 
bloodshed and crime 
What goodness and greatness thou dost perform. ■ 
If thou couldst but speak thou wouldst plead guilty to 
all these charges 
And yet more; 
For thou knewest thy calling and redemption was sure no 
matter what was thy conduct 
A welcome return was for thee in store. 
Thou wert ever conscious of thine own immortality 

Since the day of thy creation 
For thy father who indorsed and bid thee God Speed is 
as thou knewest 
The father of a great Nation. 
His influence and power went before thee as thy Jehova 
in "the pillar of cloud by day, 
And the pillar of fire by night.' 








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GALLERY OF ART 



Thou knewest full well that thy redeemer liveth 

Though his being was invisible to thy sight. 
Thy courage and fortitude was prompted by a promise 
in gold 

That fadeth not; 
Neither could moth or rust corrupt or thieves break 
through and steal; 

Eternal rest was thy promised lot. 
Thy creator did say of thee when thy mission endeth, 

Thy work done, 
That as from dust thou wast created 

To dust shalt thou return. 




Thus did Uncle Sam, the invisible father of the world's 

greatest Republic, 
Address his Prime Minister, his Financial Delegate, his 

Circulating Medium 
On its final return and at its death and cremation. 



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THE BLUE-EYED GIRL 

MONG the moving pictures that appeared upon 
the Earth, 
Was the likeness of a blue-eyed girl, she was 

lovely from her birth. 
The hand of fate so often has in childhood's 
clinging hours, 
Stole through the door of Human Heart and robbed it 
of its bowers. 

This blue-eyed girl of loyal heart, of just and gentle 

breeding, 
Was born beneath a southern sky, where people did 

seceding. 
Among the many steamboats that rode our greatest river, 
Were those of which this blue-eyed girl helped guide 

without a quiver. 



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GALLERY OF ART 




But years have come and gone since then 

Her boats have left the river; the Pilot left a father's 

love to glorify the giver. 
This blue-eyed girl of southern blood whose people never 

hurry, 
To change their ways for northern ones or southern ease 

for worry. 

She always stood for gallantry, for right and southern 

views; 
She led the march for bravery, she saw the cowards lose. 
Of all the southern women who mingled in the strife, 
Not one of them could rock her boat while on the Sea 

of Life. 



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THE REAPER OF THE FOREST 



N early days our land was clothed 
With forests deep and stout; 
Where bear and beaver made their home 
And red men roamed about. 




Where Nature spread her wondrous wings 
And sheltered all her kin; 
Within the forest thick of trees 
That time has changed to thin; 

Like life within the golden grain 
Or meadows under cover; 
Or upland loud with insect voice 
Or piping flocks of plover. 

A reaper came of cruel kind 
Like that which reaped our friends; 
And gathered in the grand old trees 
To gratify its ends. 

The wild life like the stately trees 
Has passed since years have flown; 
A new creation now has sprung 
From seeds that Time has sown. 





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GALLERY OF ART 



The raccoon haunts of long ago 
The bee trees and the trapper; 
Are folded in the passing years 
Like parcels in their wrapper. 

We mourn the loss of forests old 
Of wild life and its glory; 
Our hearts are sad, these noble things 
Have passed from life to story. 



A LESSON FROM NATURE 



HILE walking by a stony ledge 
Hard by a winding stream; 
My steps were automatic 
My mind was as a dream. 
When suddenly from an ancient rock, 
Some hundred feet in height, 

A stone-like ball before me fell, 

It was a Trilobite. 

In picking up the stony thing 

With circles belted round; 

My mind came off my rambling dream 

To tell me what I'd found. 

"Pray tell me, little Trilobite, 

About how old you be?" 

But its ear was deaf, its tongue was still, 

Neither could it see. 

In the fossiliferous age is when it lived 

And also moved about; 

Most life was then within the waves, 

And not so much without. 

As I am now, so once was it, 

As science still proclaims; 

For Earth its ages now are read 

By finding such remains. 





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GALLERY OF ART 




By evolution some men say, 

But all do not unite 

In tracing man's beginning 

To a little Trilobite. 

If such were true and life returned 

To the dead and stony thing, 

What message would this little fish 

To its present kinsfolk bring? 

I wandered further down the stream, 
Past flowers rich in blushes; 
I stopped to watch the busy bees 
And hear the song of thrushes. 
This charming spot in Nature's wilds 
With all its birds and bees; 
Embroidered by its pebbly stream 
And green and stately trees. 

I sat upon a fallen tree 
The trunk of which was mossy; 
A scolding chipmunk peered at me 
With eyes both black and saucy. 
I tossed to him a piece of cake 
With sugar over-crusted; 
He said: "You are a Biped 
"That chipmunks never trusted." 

I moved along and later came 
To brambles thick and tangled; 
I saw a cunning spider and the fly 
He well nigh strangled. 
He perched himself upon his throne 
In all his pomp and power; 
He wove his fine and subtle web 
For flies a deadly bower. 

I raised my stick to strike the blow 
That would forever sever 
The altar that he sat upon, 
But the spider was too clever. 



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GALLERY OF ART 



He sprang from off his lofty throne, 
He grasped his ladder light; 
He hurried down his fire escape 
And disappeared from sight. 

From a hole beneath a solid rock 
I saw him reappear; 
It was the home that sheltered 
This wise and wily seer. 
In spider language he began 
My actions to decry; 
Because I sought to slay him 
Since he caught a passing fly. 

He neither had an Angel form 
Nor had he Angel features; 
Notwithstanding his horrid shape. 
He was one of Nature's creatures. 
He challenged human genius 
At evening, morn and noon; 
To compare their vast productions 
With his little private loom. 

He neither had an Angel form 

And wisely too but shy; 

"So you would slay your ancestor 

"For dining on a fly. 

"From me you learned your cunning 

"Your science and your art; 

"But now that you have bloated so 

" 'Tis time that you depart." 

A lesson thus to me was taught 
While journeying by this stream, 
More valuable than I could gleam 
From books or rambling dream. 
I saw throughout this wild retreat, 
And up and down the stream, 
The shadow of the Deity 
More real than in my dream. 




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GALLERY OF ART 





IDENTITY 

REATURES of circumstances are we 

Without our will or asking; 
Brought into this world where Change is King 
And names our time of lasting. 



Shall we, when life within us dies 
Our bodies then nonentity; 
Become a part of Spiritual force 
And recognize Identity. 

Or shall we, like a drop of rain 

That falls from cloud to sea 
Lose all we are and form a part 

Of great Eternity? 

Our life is filled with mystery 

Uncertain of its call; 
We're like a drop of dew that came 

And perished by its fall. 

From out the night the dewdrop came 

The sun revealed its glory; 
But Change cut short Identity 

And left no trace or story. 

Thus we who came without our choice 

Our future too must be, 
And we may lose Identity 

In the hidden Spiritual sea. 

We are sent adrift upon the earth 

As sculptors without a chisel; 
Some carve out a normal life 

While others only fizzle. 

Some start out and would succeed 

Were it not for others tangles 
That blocked their way and turned their peace 

To worry and to wrangles. 




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GALLERY OF ART 



27 



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And thus it ever seems to be 

Of going and of losing; 
The loss to they who suffered most 

Was caused by others 7 choosing. 

US 

THE ORPHANS 



|HE sun was disappearing 
Behind a gathering cloud; 
When two little tots at a window stood 
And gazed on the passing crowd. 

The time was nearing Christmas 
When children's hearts are glad; 
But these two little urchins' hearts 
Were heavy, pained and sad. 

They saw the surging, busy throng 
That passed along the street 
Were loaded down with Christmas toys 
And many things to eat. 

Their mother, hedged by poverty 
Their father, dead and gone; 
Their wonder was: "Will Santa stop 
Or will he journey on?" 

A little bird came flitting down 
From a pine tree standing near; 
And alighted on the window sill 
Seemed tame and void of fear. 

"Let's feed him crumbs," said Robbie 

"And make him love us so 

"He'll come and see us often 

"When the ground is white with snow." 

Then little Nell, with choking voice 

And eyes that filled with tears 

Said: "Robbie, dear, we have no crumbs 

"Till mother reappears." 



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GALLERY OF ART 



THE WHITE IMMORTELLE 

HE White House where our Presidents 
Have hewn our National stone; 
That built the greatest Government 
The world has ever known; 
Has portraits of our rulers 
And holds echoes of the tread 
Of Men whose strokes of statesmanship 
Stand as statues for the dead. 





One morning when old Father Time 
Walked through the Halls of History, 
He whispered to his faithful muse 
"Let some of this be mystery. 
"Come join me and together walk 
"To see historic places; 
"The White House bids me enter there 
"To view our rulers' faces. 



m 



* 



"I have within this little box 
"Some scarlet, lasting flowers, 
"To place around the portraits 
"Of our greatest human towers. 
"This row of noble faces 
"Of the living and the dead 
"Has earned a decoration 
"Of Immortelles, overhead. 

"But why this lonely white one 
"Among the others red, 
"Are not the red for living 
"And the white one for the dead?" 
"The man that's just ahead of Time 
"Is who this white one's for; 
"We'll put that one on WILSON 
"For he bore the brunt of war." 



IS 




GALLERY OF ART 





INGRATITUDE 

HE Past rises before me 

Like a dream; 
The future ebbs and flows 

As the ocean stream. 
The Present neither was 
Nor is to be; 
Salutes us but once 

And then will flee. 
Our life is like 

The winding of a reel; 
Our accomplishment is our joy, 

Neglect is the pain we feel. 
The Present, well employed 

Adds to our spool; 
The Past, Present and Future 

Are problems of school. 
Hearken, oh man, unto us! 

Apply the Golden Rule; 
He who would wantonly 

The lower creation wrong, 
Spurns the weak and 

Encourages the strong, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

And to Nature 
His ossified feeling, 

Takes unto himself command, 
While it must do the kneeling. 

All flying, creeping, swimming, 
Moving things, 

Consider man an enemy 
And from him springs. 

When will he the lesson learn 
Of kindness; 

And from his way of malice turn? 
Oh, that he might upon 

The flaming forge of life 
Build the chain with links of love 

And not of strife, 



>*tf« 





as 




JOHN HENRY'S SCALES 

OHN HENRY studied research in our modern 

days of thought 
And practiced his profession by doing as he 

taught; 

Some classed him as a dreamer while a genius 

others said, 

He bore the stamp of honesty and by it earned his bread, 

He saw injustice springing up with most prolific growth, 

He heard men prostitute the truth without regard to 

oath; 
He saw that human liberty was bartered away like hogs, 
He saw the rights of honest men were going to the dogs. 
He set to work to study the scales that later weighed 
The ego of the alienist and plans deceivers laid; 
A searchlight gleamed above these scales with power to 

penetrate 
The armor of the outward man that truth might renovate. 
The many scales of justice that hang above the courts, 
Are stationary, immovable, of many styles and sorts. 
John Henry's scales were movable, well balanced, clean 

and bright, 
The scale which sank the lowest was the one which bore 

the right. 
These scales were used in medicine as well as courts of 

law 
To test the alienist's egotism and doctors in the draw, 
The plain and plodding doctor whose trousers go un- 

creased, 
Will hoist the fellow highest who must have his con- 
science greased. 



3 



: *@1 




John Henry's inspiration for his scales and under dog 
Was mischief wrought by wicked boys upon a little frog. 
These boys had laid a helpless frog upon a tilting cleat, 
Then struck the other end and thus did justice cheat. 
They watched the helpless frog fly up and later strike the 

ground, 
More thoughtless, shiftless, reckless boys are seldom ever 

found. 
Hard by them ran a little brook from which the frog they 

caught 
To perpetrate their cruelty, without remorse or thought. 
John Henry picked a rugged stone and called this weight 

the truth; 
Now watch me test your tilting scales young rascals in 

your youth. 
He gave the frog the longer end on which to rest and look, 
The truth dropped on the shorter end, the frog went in 

the brook. 
No sooner had the truth been dropped upon the moving 

scale 
Than liberty to the frog had come that he might freedom 

hail. 
Now boys, be mindful through your lives as in your 

youthful days, 
That truth will always hoist the wrong no matter what it 

weighs. 
John Henry said in many courts where justice is re- 
quired, 
The judges now are doubtful men, the straight ones have 

retired. 
The people see the need of scales to weigh the wrong and 

right, 
That truth may lift the lighter weight and bring the 

wrong to light. 
These scales were made for honest poor and not for men 

of means, 
To lift the graft and perjury that is done behind the 

scenes. 




Ttf* 








w 






MB 




John Henry did not patent them for monopoly's selfish 

greed 
But gave the poor the benefit that they might their 

families feed. 
Throughout our ways of human life as now its trend is 

going, 
John Henry's scales are needed for the wrong that men 

are sowing. 
Tis sad, indeed, this picture of a country in its youth, 
That trusted words must all be weighed to ascertain the 

truth. 

MS 

THE TURTLE'S REBUKE 

jNE morning in October 

When the trees were changing clothes, 
And Miss Katy and Miss Hopper 
Were murmuring out their woes, 
A lazy little turtle 

Sat perched upon a log, 
That stood above the water 
In a quiet mountain bog. 
Near by him floated likewise 

Another little tad, 
Supposedly a lassie, 

The perching one a lad. 
The merry little twinkle 

In laddiebuck's bright eye, 
Suggested to the lassie 

To come up awhile and dry. 
Miss Lassie looked disgusted, 

She swam a little ring, 
"I never dry in Autumn 

"But I'll meet you in the Spring." 

Chorus : 

Now, Laddie, stop your coaxing, 
Drop that twinkle from your eye; 
The Fall is cold and cheerless 
And it's not the time to dry. 







GALLERY OF ART 



THE PASSING OF THE HOBO 




V^ 



m 



HE railway tracks of former days 

Were hobo's great white ways; 

It was there he bummed from town to town, 

But now he seldom stays. 

These tracks are changed since former days, 

They are not the same as then; 

Instead of being lonely now, 

They are alive with secret men. 

Whatever theft occurs these days 
Along the railway tracks, 
These secret men attach the crime 
To the tramping hobo's back. 
This rocky road the hobo shuns, 
And seldom ventures where 
These secret men may him entrap 
Within their clever snare. 



The public road is none too safe 

For poor old hobo now; 

Where once he slept on beds of hay 

He finds them empty now. 

No sooner does he reach a town 

And stop to rest a bit, 

Than some one taps his shoulder 

And he gets the worst of it. 

He is branded as a vagrant 
No matter where he goes; 
The world has turned its back upon 
The old time tramping hoboes. 
The tariff of our former days 
Some say was much to blame 
For sending out the unemployed 
Who later gained this name. 





GALLERY OF ART 





The parks throughout our largest towns 
And wharves where steamboats bunch, 
Were places where he used to rest 
And ofttimes found his lunch. 
The rich control the road to wealth, 
They watch their fortunes swell; 
They wind men up and pour them out 
Like water from a well. 



BURIED STORY 

STOOD by a mound 
where an Oak tree young 
was striking deep its roots; 
And here and there 
was a broken brick 

half hidden by Locust roots. 



Within the mound 
as other mounds 

was a story long forgot; 
But it, like others, 
faded now was one 
of the common lot. 

A yeoman 

once of sturdy build, 
of purpose true and bold; 
Invaded here 
a noble wood 

and lived 'till gray and old 

With ax and saw 
this forest great 
gave way before his blows; 
And here he reared 
a hewed log house 
to shelter him from snows. 





v^ 




83W 




GALLERY OF ART 



The onward rush 
of time and age 
like other passing things, 
Had swept away 
the forest old 
and all material things. 

The homestead shared 
the forest's lot, 

the household, too, had vanished; 
The mound, alone, 
was left behind, 

all else by time was banished. 

In digging down 

through years long gone 
to trace this buried story, 
The yeoman, forest, 
home and kin 
all vanished with their glory. 



£ 



AN ODE TO CABIN JOHN'S BRIDGE 
*A Story in Stone. 



AIL Cabin John's Bridge! 
Thou mass of granite masonry suspended in 

mid-air; 
Upon thy side rests a tablet containing a story 

in stone, 
Of a hero who, as one of three, gave thee birth; 
Around whose public life, soon after thy suspension, 
There rolled the seething tide of turbulent tumult and 

revolt, 
Death scored a victory in a Lost Cause shattered, 
But its shadow still remains. 
The impulse of bitter sentiment, with chisel keen 
Hewed away that name, but as years came and went 
Its shadow overawed the other names. 



"$ 




IW 




A curious public inquired: 

"Whose name was this that fled?" 

"The name of Jefferson Davis, who, with his Confederate 

Government, 
"Is numbered with the dead." 

I stood beneath the hanging arch, beside its solid wall, 
In accents low I asked the question: 
"What lesson is taught?" 
Forthwith came back the answer from the cruel lips of 

Death: 
"There is naught but Death." 
Startled, I turned around and across the stream of Cabin 

John, 
Hard by the opposite wall stood Death, snuffers in hand, 
An ill omen forewarned. 

Not far away a modern building reared its head; 
It was here that in palmy days multitudes were fed, 
High Jinks and revelry reigned and music echoed through 
Cabin John's Ravine and across the river wide; 
While thousands in glee and merriment their appetites 

supplied, 
From bounteous fares served within that famous host- 

lery. 
The flowing bowl too frequently supplied was the trap 

which 
Death had set for pleasure and its sepulchre. 



In after years I came again; 

Silence reigned. 

The echoes of music and surging crowds had flown, 

All was withered and dead. 

A spark of impulse stirred the public heart, 

The shadow of a shattered Cause and its Hero challenged 

Death 
And refused to die, and lo! 
The name of Jefferson Davis reappeared and took its 

place where 
For half a century its shadow stood to mark the place 
Of a Story in Stone. 





^z 



8 



F the men in National harness 
Of our Democratic thought, 
Who never dodged a bullet 

In the battles that it fought, 
There is one who earned promotion 
And who earned it from the ranks; 
And we owe him greater honors 
Than to pay it off in thanks. 

If our people's song of gratitude 

Be as joyous as the lark, 
It should echo in the White House 

In the name of Speaker Clark. 
We should treasure old traditions 

Of that outward flowing force 
The Democratic party chose 

When staking out its course. 

We owe it to the glorious Cause, 

Where. fire ever burns 
On the altars of our humble homes 

Like memory clings to urns. 
If we bow before sincerity 

As Democrats always should, 
We must pay the debt we owe the man 

Who stood as martyrs stood. 

From out the shafts of treacherous mines 

With windings deep and dark; 
Where labor earns its daily bread 

And hope has lost its spark; 
Within our workshops, busy mills 

Or other fields of labor 
Are voices calling for the man 

Where justice meets with favor. 

Throughout our glorious group of states 

Our thoroughfares of travel, 
Will come united calls for him 

Who spent his life in saddle. 








GALLERY OF ART 



This unpaid debt of gratitude 
Now like a treasure empty. 

We'll elect Champ Clark our President 
In nineteen hundred-twenty. 



CONFLICT OF THE SHADOWS 

IME once stopped in its swiftness of flight, 
K \ Daylight and darkness prepared for a fight; 
The past and the future, like brave knights of 

old, 
Were clothed in fine garments with laces of 
gold. 
The field for the conflict was shaven and shorn, 
The hour was midway between twilight and morn. 
No umpire was near to rule reason or law 
The conflict when ended was considered a draw. 




v\n> 



"ft 



As coming events cast their shadows before 
Did sunsets of life throw their mystical lore; 
The past and the present claimed title to length, 
Each girded in armor, reflected its strength. 
History entered the field with its shadowy past 
And prophecy came up to contest to the last. 
The former maintained it had always been king, 
And that prophecy could stand no show in the ring. 

The public, unthinking as is usually the way, 
Is governed by vision and by what people say; 
Vibration, the power that prophecy casts 
Proves vision defective through Revelation at last. 
Thus shadows in history that flee not but last, 
Are carved by the future and not by the past; 
The people who think and not those who wait 
Will feel shadows approaching though their appearance 
be late. 




w» 




i 




LIBERTY 

HE wild bird 
Beat its wings 
Against the gilded wires 
Of a narrow home; 
Supplied with choicest food 
Bounteous in all 
It grieved for fields 
In which to roam. 

Days of hunger, 

Storms and hunter's gun 
As premiums fain 
Would it give; 
Rather than rest secure 
Within a gilded home 
Remote from Nature 
And within it live. 

Choice music wrung 
From artificial strain, 
Adornments rare and brought 
From foreign lands, 
Depressed, a spirit 
Loath to leave 

The realms of Nature 
Whether sea or land. 

What word could best 
Express this generous gift 
Behind which lurked 
A selfish thought; 
From out a choking throat 
Sweeter in tune 
Than arts divine 
It piped forth Liberty. 

Some of bird lore, 
Of spirit tame, 
Like some of human kind 
Content with sleep and eat; 




x\f« 







•tn« 



Discharge rebellious longings 
For Liberty, 
And rather seek 
An easy seat. 

Thus far behind the line 
That bounds acceptance 
Where Liberty 
Bends and yields 
Lies Independence, 
Gorgeous of dress and plumage 
Green of youth 
And sweet its fields. 

THE HOMESTEAD 

LD homesteads stand as landmarks 
Of times in early days; 
When pioneers laid forests down, 
And blazed our great highways. 
Our noble forests one time stood, 
And afterward gave place 

To homesteads old that reared the men 

Who set our Nation's pace. 

Their generations afterward, 

In coming back to view 

The old and crumbling homestead, 

Had given place to new. 

The forest with its mighty oaks, 

Had disappeared forever; 

The yeoman and his noble spouse 

Had flown away together. 

They left a glorious heritage 

To float upon the river; 

Like flint to hold the spark of fire 

Their ancestors the quiver. 

Collateral trend in modern days, 

Like steps that tread the stone, 

Wear down the work their fathers wrought, 

And leave the home alone. 



\J 





RE we drifting, slowing drifting 
From the height our fathers stood, 
When they planted Independence 
Of our glorious brotherhood, 
Are we falling, slowly falling, 

From the grade our mothers had, 

Are we careless in our morals, 

Are we going to the bad? 

Are we rising, slowing rising, 
In the world's progressive race; 
Can we press forever forward, 
Can we keep a steady pace? 
Will our actions and our motives, 
Be in keeping with our claims; 
Will we foster truth and virtue, 
And escape all pain and chains? 



V 
V 



I 



Are we listening to the death knell 

That ambition ever tolls? 

Are we conscious of its victims, 

Have we glanced across its rolls? 

Do we realize the energy 

We are burning every day? 

Do we know the night of darkness 

Will subdue our light of day? 

If we help to build attunement 
And support its monoliths, 
We will dig the grave of discord, 
We will sever all its withes. 
We will gain the faith of nations 
Where despotic rulers hold, 
The destiny of their people 
When love has long grown cold. 



GALLERY OF ART 




If we study Revelation 
And neglect the public press; 
We will do ourselves more justice, 
We will live on less excess. 
If we must be retroactive 
Let us fall for such a cause, 
As inspired our Independence 
And the virtue in our laws. 




g 







THE PAST AND THE PRESENT 

|HE years we have lived are past now, 
Their pages we have read; 
Our future ones are uncut leaves, 
Their story most we dread. 
Yet When we in our backward look, 
Scale all our past and present, 

How different might we guide our ship, 

And make our lives more pleasant. 

The clouds of sadness now hang low, 

Where once the sun was shining; 

The chilly life of selfish trend, 

Has darkened all their lining. 

But what would be our lives if left 

To shimmer on the level; 

Without its hills and valleys 

Or its choice of God or Devil? 

And when we once more backward turn, 

And think we could do better, 

Than travel on a zigzag course 

But toe the mark and letter, 

We'd find ourselves as far at sea 

As once we were in the mire; 

For Life would be a chilly thing 

Without its evil fire. 



mm 




GALLERY 




JEAN ADAMS 

HADOWS were approaching when the sun went 
down 

And the moon was withholding its silver; 
Jean Adams was cooking her evening meal 

When the sound of a voice made her shiver. 



The place where she lived was a lonely one, 
Her children were grown and had scattered; 

Neglect had invaded her fences and hedge, 
Her vehicles were old and all battered. 



Her husband had gone on a journey at sea, 
To return when the Summer was dying; 

But the ship that he guided was wrecked on the rocks, 
Her hopes then ended in sighing. 



She lived on in silence, with sadness oppressed 
And the years of her youth had deserted; 

She believed that her husband would come back to her 
side, 
And her faithfulness never perverted. 



•j\fi 



The voice that had startled Jean Adams that night, 
Was vibration that sounded his coming; 

The night passed away and by light of the day, 
Lost Charlie was through his field running. 



The wreck of his ship and exposure to cold, 
Had wrecked his mind and his reason; 

He drifted far off to a magical isle, 
Where time was as short as a season. 

A home-coming vessel bore down on this isle, 
And carried away all the stranded; 

Among them was Charlie who hurried to Jean, 
As soon as the vessel had landed. 



m% 




44 



iin- 



GALLERY OF ART 





HAVE YOU HEARD AN ECHO? 

N echo once was said to live 

Within a rugged hill; 
It bounded through a deep ravine 

It stopped not at the rill. 
When twilight pushed the evening sun 
Behind the wooded hill, 
The echo called to lovers 

Who were seated by a mill. 
The valley and its little stream 

By which the mill was turned, 
Held many a lover's secret vow 

And many a hand was spurned. 
The echo often sent delight 

To those who sought its home; 
For lovers love a quiet place, 
A spot for them alone. 

When workmen came at early dawn 

To level down the hill, 
The echo could not there be found 

Nor at the gray old mill. 
The voice of love had loaned it wings 

On which to early start; 
It bade adieu to hill and mill 

It hid in woman's heart. 
Like shadows falling o'er the face 

Of sad and solemn sphinx 
Does sorrow cross a woman's heart, 

Or storming at its brinks. 
The echo of the river Nile 

In Cleopatra's day, 
When shadows fell across her throne 

The echo fled away. 

It fled before her dreamy eyes 

It kissed their tear-steeped lids; 
It bade adieu to river Nile 

And to the pyramids. 



~0n? 





*s? 



GALLERY OF ART 



For love is like an echo's haunts, 

Unlike an endless ring; 
For when you think you own its soul 

It's gone and on the wing. 
Oh, if you hear an echo 

In wood or field or lane, 
Be kind to little echo 

It has a sweet refrain. 
Oh, if you hear an echo 

That caused a tear to start, 
It does not live in yonder hill 

But in a woman's heart. 




V 
V 



THE LIVING FORCE 

HE bird in its lessons taught man 

The theory of flight; 
That he might sweep the skies by day 

Or race with stars by night. 
The Wrights applied the principle 
Obtained from lessons taught, 
By giving birth to aeroplane, 
The dream that others sought. 




Throughout the ages past and gone 

No scientist would declare 
That craft of heavy burden 

Could maintain itself in air. 
To challenge gravitation 

And drive engines through the air, 
Are things that only lunatics 

In former days would dare. 






The problem conquered by the Wrights 
Was taught in Nature's school, 

And hither must the scholar go 
For wisdom, knowledge, rule. 




GALLERY OF ART 




The wireless spark, as fleet as thought, 

To distant lands has sped ; 
When halted and interpreted 

A thought on fire is read. 

Some say what now seem great inventions 

Or wondrous problems wrought 
Are only resurrected things 

That early Nations taught. 
These Nations like inventions 

That flourished in ages past 
Are buried deep beneath the dust 

The winds of centuries cast. 

But man of every tongue and race 

Self conscious of life or death, 
Both knew and realized his life began 

And ended with his breath. 
In Holy Writ 'tis said of God 

Whose eye is of all seeing, 
The breath of life he breathed in man 

And made a living being. 

In youth I wandered through the woods 

And fields of so much promise; 
I wondered at the stars by night, 

I was a Doubting Thomas. 
I had not then yet realized 

That I, myself, was double 
Or that my other self alone 

Could soothe my heart in trouble. 

Nor had I then in days of school 

In Nature's highest course, 
Discovered that my double was I 

And moved by sacred force. 
But journeying up and down through life 

Between its shifting scenes, 
I saw wisdom in the setting sun 

And in its noonday beams. 





v^ 



I 



GALLERY OF ART 




All nature came at ready call 

To testify at court, 
That life in every living thing 

Was the very same in sort. 
Throughout all nature's common school 

The highest thought transcending 
Is that God alone controls that life 

On which all is depending. 

If creation in its lower life 

Can challenge ours, the higher, 
Why do people worship lifeless gods 

While others worship fire? 
Unless it be that these to them, 

As objects, represent 
The living God, invisible, 

The Spirit Omnipotent. 

How passing few of human race 

Have found where God abides; 
The soul of man, his handiwork 

Is the place where He resides. 
Shall we, who having known ourselves 

As also others should, 
Encourage the outward evil man 

And neglect the inner good? 

Why not on learning one is two 

And one of two must die; 
The other is Immortality 

The image of Him on high. 
Neglect if must, the outer one, 

But feed the inner best 
Whose promise in the future life 

Brings peace and happiness. 

Our outer life's a spider's web 

Frail and of brittle thread, 
Whose fragile strength will perish soon 

From circumstance's frequent tread. 



V 
V 








>*WS 



GALLERY OF ART 




But the inner one will challenge time 
Or fate or force combined, 

Because it's wrapped by sacred threads 
Which God himself entwined. 



AMBITION 

MBITION! indestructible mischief, slumber- 
ing, 
Ah! but with one eye open sees the unseen. 
Fawning around the gifted, 
Fanning conceit of the egoist, 
Danger lurks between. 



Co-equal with all forces as to birth, 
Death has met its equal; 
It has raced with Satan, 
Some escape while others fall, 
Longevity is its sequel. 

How oft has the gifted contributed 
To civilization's chest 
When lured by wily voice? 
Ambition lifts, thinks of self, 
The cause a zest. 

Self-chosen monarchs, great or small, 
Bow before its altar; 
Begging, hoping that the power, 
Vanity worships would lift the seeker, 
Justice provoking. 

Thus must causes great, admit 
Though reluctantly, the frailty of their Creator. 
Desertion foreordained through human weakness 
Leaves the cause to die, 
Ambition its relator. 





SV*s> 




GALLERY OF ART 




OH ! IF YOU HAVE A SWEETHEART 

HEN looking for the milestones 
In our journey through this life; 
A few are hewn by pleasure's 
But most are carved by strife. 
The way is ever winding, 

The sky not always clear; 

By hope we venture forward, 

In doubt we're checked by fear. 

Our days of youth seem very short 

In kilts and tresses clad; 

When she a little sweetheart 

And I a bashful lad. 

The ever busy hand of fate, 

As years rolled on before, 

How oft I've wished for playing yet 

Around that same old door. 



That mother who from early youth 

My footsteps sought to guide; 

I often wish I had her yet 

To sit down by her side. 

Her loving heart and patient care 

In teaching me to walk 

Along the straight and narrow path 

And not the winding walk. 

She always looked beyond my faults 

Whatever was her mood; 

There's nothing worse in all the world 

That base ingratitude. 

She always said a mother's star 

Arose to never set; 

If she were living now I'm sure 

She would be a Suffragette. 

Oh, if you have a sweetheart 
And not a loving wife, 
Don't trifle with too many hearts 
But lead an honest life. 





+<**£■ 




Si 



GALLERY OF ART 





For once a woman's heart is pierced 
By broken confidence, 
That heart will never be the same, 
Though soothed by penitence. 



THE RIVALS 

HE Stars and Stripes though young in 

years, 
Has gained a worthy place 
Among the Nations of the earth 
And scored in every race. 

Unselfish men who volunteered 
To dig the trenches deep, 
Wherein the Cause of Liberty 
Could its equilibrium keep. 

These men put Cause above the price, 
They laid Ambition down; 
They glorified the work they wrought, 
And cast on price a frown. 

But human blood like other kind 
Deteriorates by lack of care; 
Unselfish men who died for Cause 
Were few and now are rare. 

What safeguards now are left to guide 
This young and powerful nation; 
Since wealth will take the place of trust 
And prostitute its station. 

Oligarchies always thrive 
Where wealth controls the hour; 
They blast the hope of liberty 
And crush its spark of power. 

Our people worship now a god 

Of heathen kind, an idol; 

In streams of wealth they seek to bathe, 

The fashion now is tidal. 




>^/ 



WHY? 

F truth is God and God is truth 
And Nature sprang from twain, 
Then why should false and treacherous 

force 
Inflict in Nature pain? 
If God inspired in Nature good 

And gave it Godly force, 

Then why should He deceive such force 

By evil and remorse? 

If trusting Nature ventures forth 

Inspired by faith and love, 

Then why should evil perch near by 

In plumage of the dove? 

If men or women start in life 

Upon the narrow way 

And sacrifice their lives for good 

By night as well as day; 

Then why should evil rob such ones 

Of laurels they have earned; 

And when they seek their treasure box 

They find their treasures burned? 

The mother, true to Nature's call 

Brings forth her helpless young; 

Why should her hopes be turned to tears 

By force that evil wrung? 

Why should the little trusting bud 

In Nature's great domain 

Be stricken by a cruel frost 

Or die for lack of rain? 

Why should a woman's loyal heart 

Be pierced by darts of pain 

And wither like the tender bud 

Or like a life that's slain? 

Why should the man who emulates 

The force that springs from good, 

Be handicapped by evil force 

And could not if he would? 




GALLERY 





What compensation will be paid 

To they who fall for good 

And why should payment be delayed 

To honest womanhood? 

If effort is to ever share 

In any recompense, 

Then why not share it while on earth 

Instead of penitence? 

And why is pleasure's season short 

And that of sorrow long; 

And why does evil have the right 

To chill the heart of song? 



«S 



THE LIVING MISSILE 



ITHIN a cosy little home 
A thing of life had stayed; 
But when the greatest battery spoke 
This little thing obeyed. 



In silence, clothed in power 
It hurried on its way; 
It left behind no evidence 
Of object, cause or stay. 




Void of range or engineer 
This subtle, little thing 

Ignored our gravitation laws, 
Continued on the wing. 

No sage or depths of research 
Have yet the problem solved; 

The destiny of a fleeting thought 
Or influence involved. 



& 



How very many missiles 

The human mind has thrown 




A human soul or human thought 
When either takes its flight, 

Emerges in the unseen world 
Its course an endless night. 



Will thought be mobile, once at large 

Will good or bad increase; 
Will human understanding find its home 

Since its release? 

The harvest of the coming years 
That spring from germs of thought, 

Will yield the kind and quality 
That the planting time has fraught. 



% 



•I\fl 




THE CONQUEROR 

|LASHING through the universe, unseen and 
unheard; 
Without form or vision, noiseless as a bird. 
Springing from reservoirs, boundless, measure- 
less, immortal, keen, 
Resistless in flight, omnipresent, results are 
seen. 
Lost but not destroyed, whirls on through ages; 
Leads the march of events, gives history its pages. 
Like ocean waves roll up their sands, 
Does Thought lift Hope, loose doubt its bands. 
Mobilized Thought, like truth that saves, 
Moves multitudes to action, in tidal waves. 



3*f 



*i*«p 



GALLERY OF ART 




THE PEDLER 

HE sun was disappearing 
One evening late in June, 
Behind a grove of chestnut trees, 
Its light obscured the moon. 



A wandering Pedler, sore of foot, 

His pockets light of money 
Laid down his pack of pedler's goods; 

The day was hot and sunny. 

The traveler camped within this grove 

And like so many pedlers 
Was tired, sleepy, longed for rest 

And shunned the busy meddler. 

From out a hollow chestnut tree 
An owl with eyes stupendous, 

Sent forth its voice in dead of night, 
The hoot was most tremendous. 

The Pedler, used to Nature's noise 

And void of fear or worry, 
Slept on throughout this Summer night 

To awaken did not hurry. 

The owl in search of fluffy things 

For lining up its nest, 
Like other feathered creatures wild 

Oft gathered up the best. 

In flitting through this chestnut grove 

While Pedler took his nap, 
The owl descended while on wing 

And carried off his cap. 

This Pedler fond of out door life 
Was freckled, tanned and gaunt; 

His headgear caused but small concern 
His stomach growled from want. 






GALLERY OF ART 



Within the band of Pedler's cap 
The owl Chose for its nest; 

Secluded was the Pedler's wealth 
Long kept within his vest. 

In after years this chestnut tree 
To lumber was reduced; 

The Pedler's cap and money, too, 
The chestnut tree produced. 




% 



THE MOONBEAM AND THE OCEAN 

EAR old Ocean with musical voice 

And sleepless eye throughout the ages; 
Your years marked by grains of sand, 
Your history volumes and not pages. 
Your bosom bare to Summer suns 
And wintry winds that blow, 
Heave in emotion and sighing, fall 
With tides in their outward flow. 




When night pursues the fleeting day 

And its mantled darkness spreads; 
The moon ofttimes o'er your bosom steals 

And a beam of silver sheds. 
Sunbeams kiss your troubled surface, 

Health abounds within your waves. 
On your surface joy has ridden, 

Mystery hides within your caves. 

Planets long have shone upon you, 

Falling stars their light you've drowned; 
The moon alone has won your favor, 

On other planets you have frowned. 
Tell me why throughout the ages, 

The moon her light your lungs should fill. 
Why should she attract your waters, 

Why should you obey her will? 



nf* 








GALLERY OF ART 



JUST HOLD A CONSULTATION 

HEN you feel a trifle fighty 
And your blood is warming up, 
Just stop and hold a consultation 
Take a drink from Reason's cup. 
Take counsel from your inner self. 
It will be to your renown; 

And as your reason rises 

Your mercury will go down. 





The seeds of evil sowing 
In our idleness or wrath, 
Are wafted by the many winds 
To grow up in our path. 
These empty seeds float lightest 
And scatter round about, 
Their kernel has been ruined 
By the musty shell without. 



IV1< 



We need a consultation 
When the devil lurks around, 
To keep our boats from sinking 
Or from going on the ground. 
Or when our anger rises 
And we draw a firearm, 
We need a consultation 
To prevent us doing harm. 



The man who lets his malice run 
With no attempt to check, 
Will find himself a criminal, 
A ruin or a wreck. 
And then he pleads insanity 
To relieve his common lot; 
There's not so much insanity 
As there's devil, people's got. 




>^/ 



** 



GALLERY OF ART 



When things go wrong in business life 

And men have ugly tones, 

Just hold a consultation 

And exempt it from your homes. 

Your wife has trials of her own to fight 

And needs your kindest voice; 

So hold a consultation 

And you'll help her to rejoice. 




When temptation of whatever kind 
Surrounds your outward being, 
Just hold a consultation 
And you'll set this evil fleeing. 
You will never be mistaken 
If you council with your soul; 
Then just hold a consultation 
And escape the evil toll. 



£ 




MY FOSTER FATHER 

WHITE frame house and big bank barn stood 

on the "Old Plank Road' ? ; 
The years I spent at this old place inspired 

this little ode. 
Both house and barn withstood the siege 
which eighty years bombarded, 
The nestor who commanded here was always well 
regarded. 

A family — some ten in all — was reared upon this place, 
But Death its reaper busy kept until it left no trace. 
Then strangers came and bought the farm with all its 

trees and hedges, 
They found it all in good repair and also free from 

pledges. 

I spent my days of early youth upon this old plantation; 
'Twas here I wore my linsey clothes, I had but poor 
relation. 



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5*i 



;▼• 





GALLERY OF ART 



This man with whom I went to live was strict and fond 

of labor; 
He planted hedges by the mile, this fence grew in his 

favor. 

In after years when I had grown and this man old and 

sadder, 
I took his picture by the gate, my sweetheart on a ladder. 
This picture showed the house and trees and all the front 

yard over; 
It showed his grandson standing by my faithful friend, 

old Rover. 



«S 



3 




KATHLEEN 

MONG the sweetest flowers that grow 
In yard or field or wood; 
Is a little blue-eyed five-year-old 
I've loved from babyhood. 
She is the fairest little bud 
Of all the flowers that bloom; 

The dart that strikes me deepest 

Is her budding ends so soon. 

'Tis wrong in me to wish that she 

Could longer be so little; 

But the thread of life for her is long, 

While mine is short and brittle. 

Her lively, happy, charming ways, 

Her lovely baby words 

Are as full of little echoing notes 

As the sweetest song of birds. 

How often when away from her 
Amid the scenes of life 
My thoughts go back to this little bud 
In hours of peace and strife. 




I»HI 




V^' 




GALLERY OF ART 



m 



A hundred times at day or night 
This little blue-eyed girl 
Drives all my other thoughts away 
And sets my mind awhirl. 

My love for her I can't compute, 

It's far beyond my all; 

And when her days of blooming end 

I cannot them recall. 

When shadows ofttime cross my heart 

And all my light has fled, 

A flaming thought from Kathleen comes 

And helps me lift my head. 

Inspired by her I refuge take 

In poetry and song; 

And thus it is the nights grow short 

That formerly were long. 

She oft came tripping through my dreams, 

They scattered, flew or fled; 

I felt her little, soft white hand 

Fall gently on my head. 

And then her hearty little laugh 

Rang out like echoes sweet; 

She drove both sleep and dream away 

And I sprang to my feet. 

But lo! no Kathleen stood nearby 

Nor anywhere in sight; 

I only saw her in a thought 

While passing in its flight. 

Inheritance, one of Nature's cogs, 

In all its vast machine, 

Contributed much to this blue-eyed girl 

From her mother's regime. 

She, too, was once a little tot, 

And played and romped about; 

My happiest days were spent with her, 

But they fled and lingered not. 




•rtf# 







GALLERY OF ART 



it/1 « 




EVOLUTION 

ROM a window in a crowded street 
I watched the busy throng; 
I studied human nature 
As the people moved along. 
Some were tall and some were short 
And some showed taste in dress; 

While others, careless, loitered on 

And some were business pressed. 

I ventured forth in Nature's Realms 
Where lessons rare abound; 
From busy ants and bugs and bees, 
And reptiles of the ground. 
I paused beside a spider's den 
To observe its cunning ways 
And from it learned a lesson, 
I have treasured all my days. 

In looking at the monkeys 
And in watching them at play, 
There is reason for what Darwin 
And other great men say. 
There is no use in denying 
That man is an animal; 
There's one that's even lower 
Who is called a cannibal. 

We laud our civilization, 
We lift our soul in song; 
We build our church and college 
And our prayers are ofttimes long. 
But When we shed our outward mask 
And reveal the natural truth, 
There is animal in our nature 
And there is instinct in our youth. 

We walk throughout our fields and woods, 
By stream and deep ravine; 
We study Nature found on land, 
Or shell life in marine. 









GALLERY OF ART 



And when we run the species down 
And all their natural acts, 
There's none that outraged Nature 
As has man, nor been as lax. 

With all our light of wisdom, 
Our exalted sense of right; 
Why are we cruel, soulless, 
Why abuse our gift of right; 
If Evolution's lifting force 
Gained man his higher place; 
Then why should life below him 
Do less outrage in the race? 




>S 



e 




WHAT IS IT? 

HAT is this strange old influence 
The people christen Love; 
Which emanates beneath us 
As well as from above? 



Its attributes throughout the years 
Were lifted high in song; 
Our sculptors carved its form a god, 
Its mission right not wrong. 

It greets us in a God-like form 
With righteousness pretending; 
But when we tear away its mask 
Then evil is transcending. 

It lifts our soul in ecstasy 

As joyous as the lark; 

Then leads us into dismal swamps 

And stabs us in the dark. 

It clings to the heart that welcomes it 
Like powder does to mortars; 
It steals within our happy homes 
And robs us of our daughters. 




62 



GALLERY OF ART 



Thus love is like old Janus's god, 
Like Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; 
For when you think your love is God 
The devil is by your side. 

It bends its knee in humbleness, 
It lifts its hand to pledge; 
Concealed it hides a dagger 
With keen and poisoned edge. 



it*« 



si 





THAT OLD FIFTH READER 

NE lazy day in Summer when the sun was 
broiling hot, 
And the streets throughout the city were de- 
serted round about; 
I passed a little book shop in a dark and 
dingy nook, 
When its owner bade me enter and he'd sell me cheap a 
book. 

I was more or less a bookworm when the notion came 

my way, 
But why it happened to attract me then is more than I 

can say. 
I accepted his invitation and dodged the heat so stale, 
To look his book shop over for books he had for sale. 

Once in his little dungeon, with dust and must and nooks, 
The perspiration flowed so free it drowned my thoughts 

for books. 
Your place is rather close, old man, the air a trifle stuffy, 
But over there I see a book, the author is McGuffy. 

He wiped the dust from off the book his face was round 

and kind, 
And handing me the book he said: "By searching ye 

shall find." 
It was the book I treasure much and one I long have 

sought, 
Because it carried memories of school I once had taught. 





GALLERY OF ART 



Of all the school day readers or books I ever sought, 
Not one of them I treasure as I do this one I bought. 
It took me back to school days with all their shades 

and dreams, 
To playing ball, to fox and geese and skating on the 

streams. 

I gladly paid the bookman's price for this long sought 

for treasure, 
That I from out this faded book could gather so much 

pleasure. 
How often since in looking back to days both good and 

old, 
I read this faded reader for the wisdom that it told. 




H 



I love this book for reasons, but high above them all, 
Hangs the romance of a pretty girl I chanced to meet 

one Fall. 
We both began as teachers in the common school of 

thought, 
But later learned the lessons that the future since has 

taught. 

We swung around the circle in our teaching days of yore, 
She was thoughtful, bright and practical, while I dreamed 

of future store. 
Could I have seen my future self as she had seen its 

shadow 
My coloring would be a brighter shade and not look 

quite so sallow. 

But He who built the universe with all its strength and 
weakness, 

Provided those who blundered with little haunts of meek- 
ness. 

I cannot reconstruct the past, nor can the greatest 
pleader, 

But I'll do my best to reconstruct and read my old Fifth 
Reader. 



r^-rcfj 



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1/1% 



5 



Yielding, benevolently, drop after drop 
Of your salt-laden waters, 
To moisten the kisses 
Of sunbeams, trained. 
Indian giver selfish, stingy, 
Gluttonous sluggard, lying in wait 
To steal from the clouds 
Your gifts, in distilled rain. 

Deep within your heart 
Rest secret Revelation, itself 
Has failed to uncover 
And coming ages, as well will fail. 
Exploration has but one field 
That challenges the adventurer 
And that is your caverns, 
An untold tale. 

Your foaming billows 

Like the melody of distant bells, 

Roll away and end in silence 

On your white shore. 

Far down, beyond the reach 

Of human vision, life abounds 

And research will remain 

An unrecorded store. 

Far beneath your restless surface 
Treasures lay; 

Sunken vessels, homes for sea life, 
Human skulls inanimate. 





^/ 



Darkness hangs its cloak 
Of mourning, hope a stranger; 
Courage dead, no ray of light 
To radiate. 

Charming ocean, always playful, 

Ever changing; 

Still the same, restless, 

Peaceful, noisy silent. 

Dullness never; bears acquaintance, 

Breath of freshness 

From your lungs; endless roar 

Instead of quiet. 



AN EVER SHINING CONSTELLATION 

ilHERE are many constellations 
In the starry skies of night; 
Some of them are visible 

Others far beyond our sight. 
The firmament has many stars 
The hand of God has set; 
They have shone throughout the ages 
And continue shining yet. 

How many little twinkling stars 

That form the diadem 
Of the Great Jehovah's handiwork 

And the light which falls from them. 
Of all the brilliant diamonds 

Or gems of rarest find, 
Their rays fall short in piercing space 

Compared with starry kind. 

But all these many clusters 

Of bright and shining lights, 
They fade away throughout the day 

But hold the fort at nights. 







i\n< 



% 




GALLERY OF ART 



How much they bring to memory 

In summing up the good, 
A greater constellation 

Of our bounteous babyhood. 

These darling, precious babies 

With their tiny hands and feet; 
Their funny baby antics, 

Their faces round and sweet. 
Their puckered rosebud mouths 

And their tiny little toes, 
Their only weapon of defense 

Is pouring out their woes. 

They trust their lives to bigger folks 

These darling, helpless dears; 
Confiding in our loyalty, 

Remote from any fears. 
What grander picture can be seen 

In all our halls of art, 
Than a mother singing lullabies 

Which bubble from her heart. 

Above the shadows that o'er us fall 

Like worlds that long have stood; 
A constellation that ever shines 

Is our glorious motherhood. 
The men, they have their brotherhood 

Whose light is ever ready 
To shoot its rays for fallen ones 

But never shines so steady. 

There may be many Damons 

In the skies of human night; 
A few perhaps are visible 

But most are out of sight. 
If men would be as constant 

As God ordained they should 
Their constellation might compare 

With boundless womanhood. 








GALLERY OF ART 



THE GRAND REVIEW 

NE evening in the Autumn when Jack Frost 
the earth did chill, 
And the songbirds all had flown away as did 

the whip-poor-will; 
I was lonely, sad and pensive, as the sun was 
going down, 
While the moon was mounting upward past the spires of 
the town. 

I walked down to a crumbling mill which time was fast 
destroying; 

Where I could sit in solitude and free from all annoying. 

The race that once its water poured and turned the mil- 
ler's wheel 

Had long since dried, the miller died and the pond be- 
came a field. 

While seated by the ancient mill with Nature still as 

death, 
The trees had lost their coats of green, the flowers had 

lost their breath; 
How many men have come and gone, since first the mill 

did grind, 
And where are they who disappeared, those yeomen good 

and kind. 

My mind turned back through years long gone as if in 

great review 
To canvass scenes and friends of old, to all I ever knew; 
The multitudes who came and went along the great 

highway, 
Abided but a season and none of them did stay. 

It seemed a part of Nature's plan this transitory state, 

To come and go, to live and die and abide the will of 
fate; 

But where are all the multitudes whom time has swept 
away, 

Has their passing been their finish, will their night re- 
turn to day? 





\ V 



5< 




GALLERY OF ART 




Will I ever see the faces of the scholars once I taught 
Or see my loving parents in other ways than thought? 
Will the multitudes who passed away return in Grand 

Review, 
To enter on a new career and start in life anew? 

In the midst of looking backward as my feet swung to 

and fro, 
They were moving automatic as my mind did not then 

know, 
But within me came the answer to the questions that I 

ask; 
"It is I who lives forever, it is you who is the mask." 

'It is I who makes you happy, it is you who makes you 

sad, 
It is I who never ruffles it is you who oft gets mad; 
It is I who paints your landscapes, lifts your star to 

heights sublime, 
It is you who soils the painting, it is you who fails to 

shine. " 

"The mask is you, the natural man who passed in great 

Review, 
"Your passing is your finished one, you cannot your 

life renew; 
"But I, who you thought I was you, will live for you 

anew, 
"But you, like other natural things, forever pass from 

view.' 

Thus me in rapture by the mill did feel an inner thrill, 
My soul to me was speaking then, while all around was 

still; 
"Has me through all these years, usurped the place of I 
"By thinking I was me and me was I?" 

My soul did me thus company keep throughout the great 

review 
It pointed out the living way, the one to live anew; 






GALLERY OF ART 



Near by me stood an elm tree, to all appearance dead, 
But from its roots a sapling small began to rear its 
head. 

Thus life in Nature gets its source from a pre-existing 

one, 
But if death kills off the living force, transition then is 

done; 
"Though you may die," my soul did say, "yet I will live 

for you 
"That you again may see your -friends in the future 

Grand Review." 



Attached to the bark of an elm tree, a little above my 

head, 
Was the faded mask of a locust, but the locust it had 

fled; 
The mask had eyes, and wings, and feet, and body same 

as when 
It moved and had its being but the life was the locust 

then. 

My soul then said: "As that mask is, so later you will be, 

"But I will guide the living you to the land of immor- 
tality. 

"To reach that land you need not wait for resurrection 
day, 

"For when your natural light goes out, then I will lead 
the way." 

Throughout the years of natural life how very, very few, 
Themselves at last did realize that one time one was 

two; 
And fewer still are they that live who realize the force 
That they themselves control the time of resurrection's 
course. 

The earlier man begins in life his transformation task, 
His resurrection is assured when he has dropped his 
mask: 



AN 



• t w 



• 






H/Jv 



The nearer the outward, natural man lives to the inner 

one, 
The higher will be his earthly joys in the race on earth 

he'll run. 

Man's body in his future state when starting out anew, 
Is fashioned by his earthly work to appear in the Grand 

Review; 
Progressive is the future life, like those who earn renown, 
And better you weave your future robe than march in a 

hand-me-down. 

The butterfly a worm once was and crept upon the earth, 
Despised by all of human kind, no one did praise its 

worth; 
But e'er the frosts of life had come, this ugly, hated 

thing 
Began its transformation task, to fly about in Spring. 

Ah, then, the Heaven we read about, is not a distant 

land! 
It is the entire universe, around on every hand; 
We enter Heaven when our soul departs and it guides 

for us the way 
That we our transformation end, when we shall end our 

day. 



Q 



ml 




THE CORNFIELD'S PRAYER 

DRY and wilting field of corn, 
One hot and sultry day, 
Petitioned to the burning sun, 
To lift some water from the bay. 
The meadow also joined the corn, 
That hot and burning day; 

And said: "Unless you moisten me 

"I'll surely make no hay." 

The sun then let a beam descend 

Upon the quiet bay; 

And turned some globules into steam 

Which rose that sultry day. 






GALLERY OF ART 




A land breeze carried this steam aloft 

Where it might soon congeal, 

And a friendly current hurrying down 

Brought rain upon the field. 

Both corn and hayfield then rejoiced, 

And took on courage new; 

They stopped their moody, wilting ways 

And bore a greener hue. 

They smiled on birds and beetles, 

To the herds upon the hills; 

They kissed the burning sunbeam, 

They waved to thirsty rills. 

Praise God from whom all blessings flow, 

And e'en this ball of fire, 

Unlike its cold and placid moon 

You are loved for aught you ire. 

Although we sometimes angry get 

Your beams and heat don't cherish; 

But were it not for these alone 

All plant life soon would perish. 



•nti 





DEFECTS 

FEW of us are normal and well rounded, 

Are gentle and jolly good souls; 
But most of us are seconds, are wabbly, 
And flattened somewhat at the poles. 



A few of us in reason are balanced, 
Our judgment notwithstanding the test; 
But most of us fall below zero 
When guaged by a temperate test. 

When we look at ourselves as reflected 
In the mirror the public hangs up; 

Defects fall short of our vision 
While we drink from an egotist's cup. 



Stop 




ART 



To err is said to be human, 
To forgive is surely divine; 

But to rise above all human defects 
Is as hard as to reach the sublime. 




WHEN THE WAR IS OVER 

HEN the Eastern War is over, 
And the Dove of Peace appears 
To drive away the vulture, 
It can bathe in pools of tears. 

It will witness mighty graveyards 
Where in former happy days 
A busy population thrived 

And commerce coursed its ways. 




l\A< 



It will see the robe of darkness hang 
Where once prevailed the white, 

And all around will sadness reign, 
And clouds obscure the light. 



It, too, will hear the rumbling 
Of the modern Juggernaut, 

In its onward, cruel mission, 
To the living's common lot. 



^i 



It will squeeze the population 
And extract the people's might 

To pay the awful war debt 
When peace gave way to fight. 



The many homes with empty chairs, 

The men who fell in war; 
The lonely ones now left behind, 

Ask what the war was for. 





v^ 



GALLERY OF ART 




WOMAN SUFFRAGE 

HEN the light of Christian chivalry 
Rolled the pagan shadows back; 
Emancipation loosed the girth 
That bound a woman's pack. 
Throughout her years of slavery 
For her patience and her cause 
The force of Equal Suffrage formed 
And bade injustice pause. 

The world has taken inventory 

Of deeds that woman wrought; 
The muse had made its balance 

Of the good that she has taught. 
The rumbling of the mighty force 

Behind subjection's door, 
Is bursting out upon the world, 

Its sign has gone before. 

The high and lofty mission 

That is woman's lot to fill; 
Has cast its shadow forward 

In Obedience to her will. 
In the wake of human effort 

Stand as monoliths in stone, 
Achievements wrought by women 

When they bore the load alone. 

The world has come to realize 

That a great and lofty cause 
Can trace its birth to womanhood 

And the justice in our laws. 
Thus change has mobilized the force 

That soon will move the world 
To higher, nobler, loftier heights 

When LIBERTY is unfurled. 






11/1-* 



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'3 



HE globes of dew in Summer time 
When fired by morning rays 
Of the sun we scold so much about 

On our hottest Summer days; 
Are like the frail white spider's web 
That is spun from silken thread, 
And will perish soon from forces thrown, 

Or Nature's softest tread. 
The finest tints of Nature's art 

The gorgeous beauty spread, 
Have all appeared when night put on 

Her evening robes and sunlight disappeared 
The stars that pin the curtains back 

That screen the light of day, 
Shed forth their soft and silvery light 

And cool the heat of day. 
In silent night the land of dreams 

Bring out the stars of night; 
But these are not celestial kind, 

And disappear in flight. 
In silent night the moonbeams kiss 

The ocean's tossing waves; 
They light the deep and dark ravines 

And smile on lonely graves. 
When night its shadow rolls across 

The mountain, hill or plain, 
The noise and tumult heard by day 

Leaves night without refrain. 
Silent night, the refuge land, 

Where rest and peace abound; 
Eternal night, how few seek out 

Or draw its cloak around. 
Silent night brings out the stars 

Of human kind and power; 
They shed their light when cowards fail, 

In dark and trying hour. 





Vw/ 



OUR NATIONAL LOOM 

HE loom that weaves our National cloth 
From threads the people spin, 
Has woven fabrics time has failed 
To fade or wear them thin. 



Some threads of thought the public spins 
Like gossamers float away; 
And empty spools are never wound 
By thoughts that go astray. 




But legislators, great or small 
Who operate this mill, 
Derive both right and tenure 
From the force of public will. 

The shades of thought that people spin 
When years are bound together 
Are colored by one eternal change 
That's going on forever. 

Thus National warp like other things 
That serves the public will, 
Is reinforced by new-spun threads 
Or changed by public will. 



•x\f* 




The crowds that saw this National mill 
Controlled by men long past, 
The threads were then of statesmanship 
But now of business cast. 

But change, that plays on everything 
Has left upon this loom, 
The same eternal verdict 
That its coming is too soon. 







H/I-* 



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GALLERY OF ART 




Then how little do they realize 
Who operate this loom, 
Their night is fast approaching 
And will overtake them soon. 

As all who one time ran this mill 
Must from their colleagues sever, 
So later they who come must go 
For change goes on forever. 



£ 



MENTAL PICTURES 

OW many of us realize 
The multitude of pictures 
We draw upon our memories 
That move not, but are fixtures? 
And when we turn our active mind 
From business thoughts to leisure 

We find our early, youthful ones 

Afford us greatest pleasure. 

We sometimes seek for missing ones 
Inspired by notions clannish; 
But disappointment long has taught 
That these, like dreams, will vanish. 
How can we hope to always find 
That all the mind recorded 
Would never vanish, fade or change 
But all our wants rewarded. 

We grasp for things that we let go 
Indifference held us captive; 
Remorse alone admonishes us 
For acts that then were passive. 
And thus we wend our wandering way 
Experience as our teacher; 
How changed would be our new career 
If we could mold its feature. 






v^ 



|HE night was light and lovely 
For the moon was bright and full; 
When a pair of sturdy lovers 
Moved by oars each helped to pull. 



Their craft, a little dory, flat, 
The water warm and still; 
The only sound beside their oars 
Was that of the whip-poor-will. 

Now Ephraim and Delilah 
Had courted long and prudent; 
In computing expectation's grist 
Delilah was the student. 

To what extent the wily waves 
Vibration plays with lovers, 
Had tickled around slow Ephraim's heart 
Was figured out by others. 

Throughout their rides and drives and walks 

This Sagitarius lover 

Had kept his bow in evidence 

His arrow under cover. 

'Twas on this ride, Delilah thought 
This everlasting question; 
Her Ephraim true would this time pop 
Without her forced suggestion. 

But he was of the older school 

Of devotees of marriage, 

And thought a woman's wants were filled 

By hopes and horse and carriage. 

There chanced to be a party spread 
At a house some miles away 
Where a man they called a wealthy Duke 
Had come to spend the day. 



S V 



R?f*N 





Slow Ephraim caught the passing waves 
Of hope's delayed rebuke; 
He realized Delilah's heart 
Was beating for the Duke. 

That evening as they journeyed home 
Not waiting for suggestion, 
Slow Ephraim grasped Delilah's hand 
And straightway popped the question. 



11/1 v 



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HABIT 

LD Habit having once held sway 
In cities long since buried, 
Took passage for the new found world 
And here old Habit tarried. 



It found such easy subjects 
Throughout our range of states; 
They swallow hooks and sinkers 
And never wait for baits. 

It shapes itself in many forms; 

Is sometimes nude and careless. 
It's pushing gowns above the knees, 

It's making most men prayerless. 

It has coaxed the farmer into town, 
The maid from out the kitchen; 

It has set a craze on playing ball 
And raised the price in pitchin'. 

It has hoisted up a woman's heel 
And turned her head to pictures; 

She finds the grip that fashion holds 
Is about as staid as fixtures. 





But these were not the seasons' change 
Nor the planets' moody spells; 
They were falling shadows fate threw down 
And the riddle misfortune tells. 

Behind these shadows, as above them, shone 
When favor lent its power, 
The limelight shed its gorgeous rays 
And influence ruled the hour. 

The patient, conscious of certain pain 
The surgeon's knife controls, 
Seeks refuge in the sleepy drug 
And the force that fate unfolds. 



* 



But the victim of misfortune's knife 
Who falls from favor's role, 
Must stand the pain, endure the sting 
And pay disfavor's toll. 

How soon the lustre fades away 
How changed the charming spot, 
When favor lifts its fairy sails 
And leaves misfortune's lot. 



How treacherous is the force 
That rules in favor's gilded court; 
No matter whether public ones 
Or homes or inns or sports. 

No sooner are we in than out, 
Or up than we are down; 
The smile that favor casts on us 
Misfortune turns to frown. 



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GALLERY OF ART 





And thus we find that shadows rule 
In all the haunts of favor; 
That night exceeds the length of day 
And pain the ruling savor. 



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A LONELY BIRD 

WOODPECKER that had lost its mate 
Took refuge among the oaks, 
A lonely bird he vowed he'd be 
Ignored all other's coax. 



When Autumn came this lonely bird 
An oak tree's top did fill 
With acorns that he hid in holes 
He pecked in with his bill. 

A pair of squirrels once was reared 
Within its lifeless top, 
And often spent their winter nights 
Within its hollow knot. 



When Winter with its ice and snow 
The ground had covered o'er, 
These squirrels then sought other haunts 
Where nuts they might find more. 

One morning when the snowflakes fell, 
These squirrels just discovered 
The woodpecker's store of acorns, 
And by them close he hovered. 

A fight ensued, this plucky bird 
His voice and feathers up, 
Beat off the hungry pirate squirrels 
Without an empty cup. 





1 



sv**> 



LLERY OF ART 




THE AWAKENING 

HAT is the great awakening 
Vibration now foretells, 
That is pushing back the curtain 
And opening up the wells 
Of emotion that was long 
Confined by dominating force 

That shackled rights of womanhood 

And inspiration's course? 

This force in inspiration 
Clothed in poetry and song, 
Burst forth and carved poetic age 
Its echoes lasted long. 
The selfish and the practical 
Dethroned poetic age 
And boasts in its creation 
Of the seer and the sage. 

But the rise of Woman Suffrage 
And the Eastern conflict's toll 
Is firing up emotion 
In vibrations from the soul. 
Once more the minds of many 
Of this cold and selfish age 
Seek refuge now in poetry 
That will soon become the rage. 

For the soul will not be shackled 

By the selfish or the cold; 

But will reassert its mighty force 

As it did in days of old. 

Thus the great and new awakening 

Of the high and nobler part 

Calls for better class of literature 

And of poems from the heart. 





GALLERY OF ART 







EMANCIPATION 



FORCE there was upon the earth 

When man at first appeared; 
Its virtue and beneficence 

Has made its name revered. 
Emancipation is the name 
By which this force is known, 
And supplication rises up 

From forest, stream and home. 

The monarch on his gilded throne 

The beggar in the street, 
Alike, this force is sought in vain 

By every one we meet. 
The dreamer and the one who toils 

Bows low before this power; 
Their minds though busied otherwise 

Implore it every hour. 

The widow with her children small 

No income save her labor; 
Emancipation fills her heart, 

She prays to win its favor. 
The cup of disappointment serves 

Its bitter dregs of sorrow; 
We seek Emancipation's force 

To clear our sky tomorrow. 

The broken hearts that love has pierced, 

The tangle webs of marriage; 
The fondest hopes of early days 

Falls lifeless by miscarriage. 
These lacked Emancipation's force 

To steer them through the waters, 
Where disappointment always lurks 

And Satan harbors plotters. 

When finance mobilizes clouds 
And price takes place of reason 

Emancipation's soothing breath 
Brings comfort for a season. 




**\ 





When men or women chance to step 
Beyond the walk that's narrow, 

Emancipation pulls as hard 
As does the plowman's harrow. 

The prisoner in his narrow cell 

Or he whose light has fled; 
And all the world to him is dark 

And all his influence dead, 
Emancipation is the god 

That has the right of way; 
Besieged by every living thing 

By night as well as day. 



«5 




?* 



THE INVISIBLE DOOR 

STOOD by the door of the Invisible, 

Its opening to watch and await; 
But the door was like its concealment 
And opened not, early or late. 

What life or condition existed 
Within the Invisible state, 
Will ever withhold its own secret 
Since no one returned to relate. 

Perhaps I had not then discovered 
What I thought was the Invisible door, 

But was only the Invisible secret 
That others had sought for before. 

The Creator who built the great universe 
And filled it with all that is seen, 

Created an Infinite portion 

Put wisdom between it a screen. 

The door that I stood by was wisdom 
Which in truth is an invisible thing 

And yields only to Infinite effort 

From power that knowledge will bring. 



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Throughout the scientific world 
And all our range of thought, 
An Optimist found the wisdom 
The world at large has taught. 



Celestial worlds were hiding 
Behind the ages' screen, 
Until Gallileo pierced it 
And wisdom since is seen. 



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In business life the Optimist 
Ofttimes must yield and bend 
To Pessimistic people who 
See a different trend. 



There is sunshine in the Optimist, 
Good natured in his life; 
No frowns on clouds and worries 
And he turns his back on strife. 



'5» 




The beauty of the rosebud 
Is the unfolding of its breath; 
The sadness of its whole career 
Is its closing up in death. 

I'd rather be an Optimist 
And see all things look bright, 
Than wear a pessimistic look 
And hide away from sight. 




HE flowers died, 

The leaves had faded and fallen. 

Dear old Indian Summer 

Wept at their bier 

As they passed away. 

Spring came, 
Clothed in her robe of green, 
Her breath rich in perfume 
Proclaiming the arrival 
Of Resurrection Day. 



8! 



The voice of Spring 

Thrilled all Nature 

And her coming 

Brought cheer to all life 

That bided its time. 

From out the cold earth 

Life appeared, the worm transformed 

Floated on wings of gorgeous plumage; 

Nature threw out 

Her lifeline. 

Thus the going and coming, 
The ebbing and the flowing 
Foreshadows the Creator 
In all His wondrous ways. 
Sadness passes 
With the going 
And gladness 
With the coming, 
Wailing winds give place 
To Springtime lays. 

Invoke the power 

Of Springtime, 

No matter at what milestone 

We may have reached 

In our going. 



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GALLERY OF ART 






There will come new life 
In an ebbing, 
While we journey on 
In the Stream of Time 
That is ever flowing. 



THE STREAM 




SAT beside the river 
In the days of long ago; 
When my dreamland lay before me 
And when youth was all aglow. 



It was daytime then in dreamland 
And through Faith the range I found; 
But my missiles then projected 
Missed the mark and struck the ground. 

There have rolled between that sitting 
And the place where now I stand, 
The years that drained that river 
And cast shadows o'er the land. 



The enchanting scenes of reverie 
And Fancy's glorious dream, 
Have passed away forever 
And I'm floating down the stream. 

Its banks are bleak and treeless 
And there's little sun to shine; 
The current's swift and cruel 
In this restless Stream of Time. 

But I, like all before me, 

While in this Stream of Time; 

Must leave my friends and trust to fate 

When left without a line. 





SJr*> 





GALLERY 



ART 



WE ARE ONLY SHADOWS 

UR mind should be our motor 
To guide us through this life, 
But we're shadows, only shadows 
In the field of human strife. 

The public press reflects us 

And it moves our acts and ways; 

We are governed by its bidding 
And the kind of hand it plays. 

We should laud our independence 
Challenge critics, court not praise; 

But we're shadows, only shadows 
In these fickle, restless days. 

The opinion of the public 

Is the mirror we hang up 
And we pay for disappointment 

As our traveling drinking cup. 

We are all starched with ego 

We want our way and own; 
But we wilt and bend as shadows 

From the light the press has shown. 




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THE CONFLICT OF THE DAYS 

HEN we're grown and old and wrinkled 
And we turn our backward gaze, 
We covet early gardens filled 
With happy, sunny days. 

When we're young we're looking forward 
When we're old we're looking back; 

We are somehow retroactive 
And our forward look is slack. 



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When the days of youth beguiled us 
And we bent our forward gaze; 

Then we swapped our gold for pewter, 
In those bright and sunny days. 

When we're young we dream of future 
When we're old we dream of past; 

But the crepe about the dreamland 
Is for the days that now are past. 

When we're old we see the shadows 
Of the things that might have been; 

All our present days are doublets 
The real gems were then. 

And so our mind will wander 
O'er the conflict of the days, 

And we sit and think and ponder 
Whether worry ever pays. 



SINCERITY 

OU cannot mold a diamond 

From the dull and lifeless clay; 
You cannot pull the curtain back 
And see the stars by day. 



Nor can you judge the kind of wood 

That lies beneath the paint; 
You cannot judge a woman's heart 
That's hampered by restraint. 

You cannot judge a human soul 
By garment, groom or style; 

But judge it by resisting force 
Like diamond, acid, file. 

You cannot measure friendship's strength 
By all day cloudless skies; 






GALLERY OF ART 



But judge it by the blow it strikes 
When falsehood falls and dies. 

Chorus: 
Then listen to the throbbing heart 

Sincerity bares for you, 
And choose between the polished, false 

And the plain, unvarnished, true. 





WHAT IS LIFE BUT HOPE 

ASKED a cunning spider 
As she wove her silken rope 
To teach me what to use for mine, 
She answered "Out of Hope." 



I asked a black and shiny ant 

To tell me what is Hope; 

Her answer was: "The Faith we have 

In bridge or chain or rope." 

I next sought out an aeronaut 

In feathers clad, unclean; 

She taught that man on wings of Hope 

Could fly in a machine. 

I turned away and asked a leaf 

What message it could bring; 

It said: "Through Hope when Autumn passed 

New life would come with Spring." , 

And then it was I sought a man 
A learned one and old; 
I asked of him: "What then is life 
"To which we cling and hold?" 

"A substance," was his answer, 
"The thing that Hope stands for; 
"When once it's dead and perished 
"It has passed forever more." 



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GALLERY OF 




THE RIDDLE OF LIFE 

ITH all our lights of knowledge 
When they're mobilized and trained 
Upon the frowning secret 
As to why was life ordained; 
The curtain ne'er has parted, 
The bolts refuse to turn, 

The door still shields the secrets 

We yearn so much to learn. 

We search, we probe for wisdom 
Invoke the divining rod; 
But with all our knowledge and effort 
The secret still lingers with God. 
Why should there be creating 
With the label of passing on all? 
The beginning is certain to perish 
And the rising is certain to fall. 

The celestial as well as the earthly 
Is wasting and wearing away; 
Is wisdom creator or created, 
Is it labelled to pass or to stay? 
With the advent of life came wisdom 
The riddle remains unsolved; 
Why is life still so mysterious 
And why must creation be dissolved? 



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HUMAN EFFORT 

HEN the clouds hang low about us 
And misfortune's chilly hand 
Depresses all our efforts 

And our boat is forced to land; 
We drop our oars if rowing 
Or we slack our tugs at pull ; 
We generate emotion 

And our hearts with blues are full. 





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Ser*> 




GALLERY OF ART 



We question compensation 

For the sacrificial loss; 
We give up human effort 

And get our pay in dross. 
Then we wonder what's the premium 

For toil of being good; 
Or just why we're slipping backward, 

Can't go forward if we would. 

But we brush from off our shoulder 

That ugly, doubting thing 
That darkens aspirations and wounds 

Hope when on the wing. 
We summon up our courage 

Hoist our sails, untie our rope 
And we sail above depression 

In our aeroplane of Hope. 




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FROLIC OF THE SHADOWS 

HADOWS long and shadows short, 
Shadows fat and lean, 
Appear upon the field of life 
And pass beyond the screen. 
Some shadows tell of real life, 
Of story, prose or verse; 

Some tell of blessing's fleeting trail 

And misery's blighting curse. 

Some are cast by past events, 

While some appear before 

To tell of things in hiding now 

Behind the future's door. 

In shadow land there's night and day, 

There's some that 's never seen; 

There are some that act in colored light 

And some behind the scene. 




GALLERY OF A 



Some shadows tell of shadowy deeds 
Design had covered o'er; 
But subtle fate removed the shield 
That formed the hidden door. 
Thus shadows come and shadows go 
But many reappear and reveal 
A hidden secret when the truth 
Is drawing near. 




& 



THE QUESTION 

HY should we hail as sacred 
The human burial place; 
The refuge for the mask in dust 
Where soul has left no trace? 



In rounding out epitome 
Of the mask in burial place, 
It is dust divorced from memory 
The last of human trace. 

It is better far that flowers 
Should lose their fleeting breath; 
To decorate the living 
Than to waste it all on death. 

Why embalm the sums of money 
By investing it in stone, 
That death should rest above the dead 
And stone should stand for bone. 

We show our lack of wisdom 
When we worship passing dust; 
We cloud the gleam of memory 
By covering it with rust. 



We should turn our vision forward 
And to hope should be more just; 




We should worship the immortal 
And transfer our faith in dust. 

We should help to lengthen memory 
And to lift our soul in song; 
For the mask will fall and vanish 
While the soul will journey on. 

THE SCHOOL OF NATURE 

HE sculptor with his chisel 
The artist with his brush 
The poet with his language 

The singer like the thrush 
Are not so grand as Nature 
In her wonderland and deeds 
We bow in benediction 

At her beauty wrought from seeds. 




Not all her marvelous beauty 

From seeds derives its source 
But springs from other causes 

In her great and wondrous course. 
She molds and shapes the snowflake 

Cuts crystals rare and fine 
Casts shafts of moon and starlight 

And creates a sun to shine. 

The Creator and not the creature 

Is the object all should hail 
When we look upon His handiwork 

And all its great detail. 
The artist, sculptor, poet 

And all who enter school 
Of Nature's greatest teaching, 

Find there knowledge, wisdom, rule. 

How little do we realize 

As we wend our way through life 
That we're careless in our lessons 

From the school that's free from strife 





I-/ 





How grateful should all human life, 
How humble should it be; 

For the freedom of the wisdom 
That is plain for all to see. 



LADY JANE 

NOBLE river high of bank 
And rich in song and book 
Pours out its surplus waters 
In the bay near Sandy Hook. 
A busy city grips the throat 
Of this historic river; 

New Amsterdam and Peter passed 

As did the bow and quiver. 

Within this wondrous city 

On a fickle April morn, 

No so very long ago 

Our Lady Jane was born. 

She's as happy as the day is long 

This winsome Lady Jane; 

Her smiles for all who know her 

Are like sunshine after rain. 

Her eyes are like the stars of night, 

Her cheeks like roses red, 

Her lips like priceless rubies 

That adorn the crowned head. 

The mother of our Lady Jane 

Was born in old Kentucky; 

She's a thoroughbred of that great state 

And I think, mighty lucky. 

The father hails from Utah state, 

He's fair and tall and plain; 

He's professor in Columbia 

And adores our Lady Jane. 

I met her in the Campus 

When the grass was fresh and green, 

In the good old Summer time 

Of Nineteen-seventeen. 






LSV*V 



GALLERY OF ART 



95 



v*/ 



She charmed alike the youthful, 

The grown-ups and the old 

Who saw her in the Campus 

When her carriage through it rolled. 

She charmed our good friend, "Didum," 

And our lovely girl, Anne Holt 

And all the little kiddies 

Who cantered like a colt. 

The author of this lyric 

Who loves the good and plain 

Enjoyed a lively one-step 

When he danced with Lady Jane. 

And of this little Lady Jane 

Not half has yet been told; 

She's the dearest little lassie 

And she's less than one year old. 



% 



THE CROSSING 



HE road was smooth but winding; 
There was Summer time to cheer; 
There were song birds in the forest; 
There was change throughout the year. 



There was music in the meadows; 
When the bobolink arose; 
And bubbled forth his melody 
Like poetry after prose. 

The hills were void of shepherds; 
Though the flocks like flakes of snow, 
Extended from the summit, 
To the brook that flowed below. 



Beyond these scenes of beauty, 
Flowed a stream of current swift; 
I'll ford this stream deep though it be; 
My burden then will lift. 





GALLER Y 



I looked above the current; 
But no cable stretched across 
To save myself from sinking 
Or meeting certain loss. 

So I set my mind to action; 

I spun a line of thought; 

And I crossed this dreaded river, 

With its tide and dangers fraught. 




THE TOMB OF TIME 

P from the shafts through the dust of ages 
Come gems that were buried from historic 

pages; 
Shielded by time and cut by its wheel 
The spool of the past now yields to the reel. 



How often has science gathered to guess 
The age of this dump or compressor that pressed; 
How near or how far they have arrived at the truth 
Of the depth of this dump or the days of its youth. 

Legions of effort compose this great dump, 

Roots of great governments decayed with their stump; 

A sepulchre vast and a tomb of unknown 

Is all that is left that the ages had known. 

The grave diggers of past and of time yet to come 
May blast through the rock, through the shade and the 

sun; 
But chemists, geologists, historians, all 
Must stop in their research when they strike the last 

wall. 

Down through the shafts the past century has sunk 
In search of vast treasures in Time's hidden trunk; 
Explorers return with tidings but few 
Amid the dust of the ages they found nothing new. 




JMS' 




3 



flakes of snow were falling, 
The clouds hung low and dark; 
Depression hedged me round about 
But Hope still held its spark. 



The stars of youth were shining 
Above the cloudy scene, 
Their shafts of light by patience 
Will pierce the cloudy screen. 

Again these stars of former days 
Will shed their shafts of light 
For me, who never wounded Hope 
Nor plumed its wings for flight. 



In human life are also stars 
Celestial in their light, 
They soothe and lift a drooping heart 
And turn the dull to bright. 

From out the unknown, in one life 
Such human Star appeared; 
It led the way to triumph 
And it then became revered. 



Did such a Star cross o'er the path 
And drive away the doubt 
That hindered much this book of verse 
And put the doubt to rout? 

Oh, worthy Star, then shine in verse 
As time winds up her thread, 
And yours will not be sunset grey 
But sunset bright and red. 




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